


The Merits of On-The-Job Training

by thegraytigress



Series: The Sexy Misadventures of Agents Romanoff and Rogers [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor intel on an undercover mission forces a bit of unexpected and unfortunate role reversal.  Now Natasha's not sure which is worse: having to watch Steve make a fool of himself while he tries to seduce their target or having to watch their target stick her evil hands all over her man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merits of On-The-Job Training

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** M (for language, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, this little prompt about Natasha being embarrassed at Steve's attempt at seduction ballooned into a monster. Warnings for sex. Duh.

“You have eyes on our target?”

Steve’s voice was low through her earpiece.  “That’s a negative, Widow.  I have eyes on you, though.”  Natasha resisted the urge to roll her own eyes.  Barely.  Someone might notice, and while she was pretty sure they were in the clear as far as their enemies were concerned, there was no sense in taking a chance.  Still, she knew he was being nothing but earnestly truthful.  She could practically _feel_ his eyes on her from across the room, strong and unwavering, tracking her every move.  She could practically picture them, intense and blue as the sky.  And she could practically feel him move behind her on the second floor, his hands sliding along the polished stone railing.  She could practically feel _him._   “And let me tell you…  The view sure is somethin’.”

The little smile that graced her lips was harder to stifle.  She managed it, though, and turned back to the party.  This event was elegant beyond the pale, brimming with some of the most influential people in Europe.  Unfortunately, these influential people tended to be influential in the _wrong_ sorts of circles.  Crime and corruption ran amuck here amongst twisted politicians, compromised businessmen, and evil men masquerading as society’s elite.  These were the sort that used their ill-gotten gains to live lavishly, arms and drug dealers, terrorists and tyrants, all disguised as benefactors, philanthropists, and decent human beings.  She wasn’t fooled.  She’d seen beneath the varnish far too many times, both as a Red Room agent and as an agent of SHIELD, to have the wool pulled over her eyes.  The people in this room in their thousand-dollar tuxedos and gowns, bleeding out money, power, and arrogance with every sly smile and smugly knowing word to their peers…  These people were dangerous.

And one of them was particularly bad.  Marc Allard was this host of this event, which was a grand ball in honor of his hugely generous donation to the Opera Nationale here in Paris on the opening night of its performing season.  It would be more charming if she didn’t know thanks to SHIELD intel that all of that money was laundered.  He was a banker to some of the world’s worst, a stock broker with powerful allies all over the globe, and his decisions often set the market and always made his “clients” money.  This busy get-together, filled with the elite, was a front for evil, and SHIELD knew it.  Fury had been waiting for months to get an in into Allard’s operation; the man was very smart and protected by some very ruthless folks desperate to keep their secrets secret.  When news of this party had reached SHIELD, Fury had acted immediately and sent his best agents to infiltrate Allard’s inner circle and gather some much needed evidence.

And so Captain America and Black Widow had been dispatched.  Sitwell had arranged it so their names had appeared on the event’s guest list (well, fake names, at any rate, but names linked to their photo identification).  False back stories had been fabricated at the Hub; the event had just enough legitimate attendees, other donors, actresses, socialites, and opera stars, that it hadn’t been too hard to find a plausible reason for them to be there.  They hadn’t arrived together, and for the most part they’d stayed apart thus far (anything else would be suspicious for what they needed to do).  In terms of mission objectives, this one was actually fairly simple.  Allard’s right hand man was the true target; this person was the one with access to his accounts via a computer that went with him everywhere (and that was biometrically protected, if their information was to be believed).  That meant this man could expose his financial statements, his books, if they could reach him.  That, in turn, would expose everything SHIELD and Interpol needed to take Allard down.  Their mark was French and his last name was Savatier, but other than that SHIELD had surprisingly very little information on him.  He was something of a recluse, working from within Allard’s company, and he was proving extremely difficult to track.  No doubt this was on purpose; if people couldn’t identify him, his position (and power) was more secure.  Rumor was, however, that he would be here tonight, likely to be on hand to facilitate any business deals Allard would be making with his less reputable guests.

So their plan was disgustingly simple (well, Steve thought it was – this was sort of run of the mill for Natasha).  They’d infiltrate the party.  Natasha would work the room, doing what she did best, slipping among the guests like a breeze, gathering information, making a flirtatious effort to charm this man or that until their tongues were looser, before flitting away like she’d never been there at all.  Of course, Steve hadn’t cared much for this approach, and she’d teased him repeatedly about his jealous streak (he did have one, even if he denied it).  Part of her got a little thrill out of it now.  To her, this was what she’d been trained to do, twist a man around her fingers until she’d gotten what she’d wanted before tossing him aside and disappearing like a shadow.  Her typical _modus operandi_ had an entirely different angle to it now with Steve there watching, and she simultaneously felt powerful and somewhat ashamed.  Deep inside (and she’d _never_ let this slip to anyone, but especially not to SHIELD), she’d realized she couldn’t do what she’d done before.  Not when she loved Steve Rogers.  Everything had changed when they’d become partners, and using sex as a means to an end…  Well, she wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – anymore.  Perhaps that made her less of a spy, but if it did, then it did.

That just meant that when she found Savatier, she was going to need to use her head (and her wiles) to get a hold of his fingerprint and retinal scan (and get into his hotel room at this fancy, five-star place) without compromising her sense of morals too much.  Hers were more lax than Steve’s, but there were lines she couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – cross now, sleeping with a mark included.  She knew she could do it without that.  There were other ways to get what she needed.  While she was obtaining access to his computer (a laptop, intel believed, likely up in the suites Allard and his men had been allocated – it was rather ironic that SHIELD had so much information about where Savatier was staying and what sort of computer he had and that he would be here tonight without any details about _what_ he looked like), Steve would keep an eye on things down in the ballroom.  Monitor the party, make sure their escape routes were clear, keep tabs on Allard’s men and the security guards in the employ of the hotel.  He was working the room, as well.  Just as she was trying to get information on Savatier, so was he, chatting it up loosely and easily with the people around him as he sipped his champagne and looked ridiculously sharp in a tuxedo.  He was sporting some well-groomed scruff (and it was hard to deny what that did it her.  She’d never much cared for men in facial hair, but that had been before she’d seen Steve Rogers in the beginnings of a beard.  She wasn’t going to let him shave it come tomorrow).  She was always amazed at how far he’d come since his first tentative days with SHIELD when he’d been awkward, nervous, and had stuck out like a sore thumb.  She knew she had a great deal to do with that.  She’d brought him up to speed on the future, of course, teaching him history, technology, modern-day espionage, and pop culture.  More than that, though, she’d helped him find his footing, first as his friend and then as his lover.  He was more confident now, quite capable on missions such as these where subtlety and subterfuge were the weapons of choice.  In short, she was well in the process of teaching the soldier to be a spy.

Surprisingly, he was rather good at it, at least enough to be passable.  Captain America undercover.  She’d never have thought that would work (she and everyone else in SHIELD).  When they’d first started together as partners, she’d feared he’d be hopeless.  He was better suited as a blunt instrument, a weapon or a shield, the sort of person who’d kick ass and take names as a STRIKE commander.  That was what he’d done during World War II, led his Howling Commandos in their rampage across Europe as they’d destroyed HYDRA, and he’d done it beautifully.  His skills as a commanding officer were the stuff of legends.  A STRIKE agent hadn’t been what Fury had envisioned for him, though, and a year later, Captain America was playing second fiddle to her on covert ops.  He deferred to her in situations like this, despite how commanding and confident he was in the battlefield.  This was her area of expertise, her arena, and he knew it.  And he wasn’t the impediment one might think he’d be, even if he wasn’t quite as comfortable with this as she was.  He was getting there.

And she could still feel his eyes on her.  Roving.  Analyzing.  _Memorizing._ “That dress is a real stunner.  Bet you’d look even better out of it, though.”

She was _not_ going to blush.  Only he could do this to her.  She knew he was watching, so she swayed her hips suggestively, the slit that ran the length of one side of the black fabric revealing her thigh nearly up to her hip.  The other side was a solid panel just to hide the small handgun strapped far up on her right thigh.  The sweetheart bodice of the dress was crusted with gems, like stars dotting a velvet sky.  Even she had to admit it was a beautiful gown, and with her hair done up elegantly in ringlets, she actually felt glamorous.  Even now, after all the times she’d done something like this in her past, there was a certain thrill to this, to getting “all dolled up”, as Steve put it, and gliding through a room of glitterati like she was _meant_ to be there.  Her dress shimmered again as she whirled slowly, giving a bold, seductive look over her shoulder that was half a smirk.  She saw Steve swallow thickly all the way from where she was on the dance floor below.  “Are you trying to kill me?” came the low whine in her ear.

“Not until after we get out of here,” she murmured back.  “Eyes on the prize.”

“They are.  That’s the problem.”

“The _mission objective,_ you idiot.  We have a job to do.  Stop thinking with your little Cap.”

“Stop teasing me then.”

Natasha grinned to herself, finishing her champagne.  “I’m going to try to get some more information on our mark,” she declared.  A waiter walked by her, and she set her empty glass down on his silver tray before grabbing a full one.  “Someone here has to know something, like what his first name is.”

“I’d settle for what he looked like,” Steve replied.  After inconspicuously scanning the crowd around her to see if anyone was watching her, she glanced over her shoulder again.  His broad shoulders were turned now, and he was leaning back against the railing.  Damn, he looked good in a tux.  It was also an expensive one, Gucci she thought the SHIELD handlers had said as they’d prepped for the mission.  It did a decent job at hiding the bulk of Steve’s muscles, but it accentuated the broadness of his shoulders as his torso tapered into his narrow waist.  From here with him leaning as he was, she had a nice view of his ass.  _Stop staring._   “That’d be a start.”

He walked away, so she lost sight of him.  _Back to the mission._ She set her jaw, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the room again, and went to work. 

About ten minutes later, she had information.  One of the more portly men (she recognized him as a Russian arms dealer, fairly small game but big enough to have some sensitive information and inebriated enough to spill it to a pretty girl) claimed Savatier and Allard would be down shortly to “mingle” with their guests.  _Perfect._   Once that happened, she could move in for the proverbial kill.  The string quartet was gearing up to begin a song, but they were clearly waiting for their hosts to arrive.  “Come down here,” she quietly ordered over the comm link.

“Huh?”

“Come down here and dance with me.  It’ll appear less suspicious than standing around, and we’ll be able to get a good look.”  She could hear his hesitation.  Suppressing a sigh and another roll of her eyes, she watched as the musicians gathered their music and resettled themselves on their chairs.  “You copy?”

“I can’t dance.”

Obviously there was more she needed to teach him.  It was too late now.  “Doesn’t matter.  Get down here.”

Again, she could practically feel his sigh.  “Copy that.”

A few moments later, the head of the opera’s Board of Directors stood before the crowd, dressed in an old-fashioned tuxedo with tails, and welcomed everyone to the event.  He went on at length about the upcoming season, about the importance of the opera’s endowment, about the great generosity and philanthropy of their biggest sponsors.  His droning speech was enough cover for Steve to make his way down the two grand staircase surreptitiously.  Each step was trimmed in red carpet and gold filigree.  Natasha had become so close to him that she could track his every movement from the corner of her eye.  Her senses were attuned to him now in a way they never had been for anyone else, so when he reached the dance floor and meandered his way through the crowd to come to her (still a respectable distance behind her, of course), her skin tingled and her heart picked up its pace.  It generally took a lot to get her pulse up these days with all she’d seen and done.  Steve Rogers could do it with _nothing_ , a smile or a flash of his blue eyes or a wisp of his callused fingertips over her skin.  Or just standing there, looking handsome and hot as hell in that tux.

It took _forever_ for this old codger to finish his spiel.  Natasha tried to keep herself still, but it was hard with Steve’s eyes on her, so close yet so far away.  Waiting for this silly dance was torture, and the dance had nothing to do with the success of their mission.  Yeah, it _might_ be less conspicuous to get a look at Savatier that way, whirling around the dance floor with everyone else, but it wasn’t necessary.  Truth be told, she just hungered for the closeness of it, for watching Steve blush and maybe even stumble, for having him be putty in her hands.  This whole night had been a teasing litany of double entendres, longing looks, and inappropriate thoughts.  Flirting and lusting and silent (and not so silent) bemoaning of needing to complete this mission rather than ripping off that expensive gown and ridding Steve of that ridiculously fitted tux and having a _really_ good time.  _Have to have your fun when and where you can._ Natasha smirked to herself.  _Later._ As soon as they had Savatier in their sights, she’d go in and they’d be done with this.

Finally, _finally_ , the musicians started their song.  It was a simple waltz (she thought Steve could at least handle that).  The head of the Board of Directors gestured to the ballroom floor, and the guests headed to it.  Natasha made a show of waiting a moment, looking around like a girl searching for a partner, her little, black satin handbag clenched to her stomach.  Someone tapped her shoulder.  It was getting harder and harder to resist that urge to smile.  “May I have this dance, miss?”

She turned, donning her most dazzling grin like they hadn’t been sleeping together for months.  She even curtsied a little, throwing it on extra thick.  “Of course.”

After she set her handbag to one of the tables, Steve took her hand and led her out onto the floor.  He might not have had a clue about how to dance, but he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.  His hand went boldly to the small of her back, just below where the cut of the dress was, and he grasped her right in his left.  He was good enough to follow the beat.  “Not so hard,” he declared after a moment, smiling.  She could sense he was tense though, and his eyes roamed the crowd.

“Not so obvious,” she reprimanded lightly.

Steve set his gaze back on her with a soft, irritated grunt as he turned her around the dance floor, flanked by dozens of other couples.  The women wore lavish dresses, and the men moved with nothing but confidence.  Steve kept himself straight and tried to lead.  “We need to make a move on this guy,” he said softly.

Natasha’s dress swished softly as they moved across the floor.  In the heels she wore, she was taller but still a good half a head shorter than him.  She could see over his shoulder, though.  “Patience, my darling.”

“STRIKE ops are easier,” he grumbled.

“Maybe.”  Unable to stop herself, she pressed herself closer to him on the next turn, the bodice of her dress flush to his chest.  His eyes went wide, and color came to his cheeks.  “Not as much fun, though.”

“Stop teasing me,” he ordered again, though the look on his face said quite the opposite.  “All night you’ve been at it.”

“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”

“On my toes.  Right.”

“And you’re supposed to be leading me.”

“When have you _ever_ let me lead you?”

“With the Avengers.  And usually in the field.”

“Besides then.”

“That’s your territory.”  Natasha smiled seductively.  She really needed to work on her self-restraint (she was beginning to see she had essentially none when it came to him), because before she thought better of it, she was standing on _her_ toes to ghost her lips up his cheek, moving her hand from his shoulder to grasp him about the back of the neck.  She whispered right into his ear, “This is mine.”  He went warm beneath her – she could practically feel it – and she wondered what the penalty would be from Fury for quitting this assignment, finding the nearest bathroom, and ravishing one another.  _It’d be worth it, whatever it is._

She was about to goad him further as he turned her again, but she caught sight of Allard coming down the steps across the ballroom.  She recognized him instantly from the missing briefing, a thin, wiry man with hawkish features.  He had a whole retinue of men in dark suits, his bodyguards in all likelihood.  None of them looked like the sort to be a right-hand man.  They were hired muscle, nothing more.  There was also a woman with him, dressed in a modest sapphire blue gown, beautiful but not too revealing.  She had strawberry blond hair piled atop her head in a loose bun and striking blue eyes.  Slender and long-limbed, she was comely, beautiful in a simple way.  Her make-up was impeccable, though, and she seemed entirely poised and calm.  Her face was decidedly impassive, her eyes dark and humorless.  Allard’s date, maybe?  The second Natasha thought that, she knew it was the wrong conclusion.  There’d been no mention of Allard having a significant other in the dossier SHIELD had made on him.  The woman was not standing close enough to Allard to be his girlfriend at any rate, or to be any other sort of female “companion” (Allard certainly had the power, the means, and the money to get whatever woman he wanted).  Furthermore, her body language was all wrong for that sort of thing.  No, she held out her hand, smiling a smile that did not reach her eyes, and shook the hands of the group of men to which Allard was introducing her.  This was business, not pleasure.

 _Shit._   Natasha looked away before she was caught staring.  “We have a problem.”

Steve blanched slightly with her soft announcement.  “What?”

“Allard’s right hand man isn’t a man.”

“Huh?”

Natasha sighed tiredly, grasping him firmly and turning them so that he was now facing the scene at the other end of the ballroom.  His forehead furrowed in puzzlement.  “I don’t get it.”

She sighed _again_ , more long-suffering.  “ _That_ must be Savatier.”

“No.”  He averted his gaze a moment, spinning Natasha with surprising skill before looking back.  She realized he’d done that to get closer and get a better vantage.  He frowned, scrutinizing the woman in the blue dress.  “Damn it.  You’re right.”  Now he sighed, and frustration played across his face.  They danced a moment, reeling with the discovery that their plan was not going to work.  With Savatier being a woman, this had suddenly become a very different (and likely intractable) situation.  “What do we do?”

Natasha’s mind raced, all traces of the good cheer from before gone in a snap of professionalism.  She glanced around, keeping an eye on Allard and Savatier.  Other men were coming, men she recognized from SHIELD’s wanted lists as drug dealers.  The more embroiled they got in their business matters, the harder it would be to do anything (if there was anything left they could do).  A few seconds passed while she thought.  “Abort?” Steve asked.

“No.”  She knew the answer, of course.  She knew it right away.  Admitting it to herself was one thing.  And getting him to go along with it…  Well, that was another.  But there was no other way.  So she just went for it.  “You have to do it.”

Steve jerked back in her embrace.  She wanted to smack him for being so obvious, but that would be even more so.  Predictably he sputtered a moment, his emotions working their way over his face.  Shock.  Doubt.  And finally horror.  “No.”  Of course he’d say that.  “No way.”  And that.  “I can’t.  I’m not – I mean, she’s not…”  And all of that.   “I mean, this isn’t…  _No._ ”

She stepped closer to him again, this time more for comfort than for anything else.  The music swelled, the strings deeper and powerful, and she took his face between her hands.  “Yes.  You’re the only option.  You have to do it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” he returned, his voice a low, strained whisper.  His eyes darted around wildly.  So did hers to ensure their little argument wasn’t being watched.  As far as she could see, it wasn’t.  “I – I – I can’t.  I can’t.  I can’t play the part.  I can’t get a woman to… _you know._ ”

“Put out?”

“I was gonna say let me seduce her.”

That was the most pathetic thing she’d ever heard.  “People don’t _let_ you seduce them.  It’s not like you go up to them and ask them if it’s okay.  You just _seduce_ them.  You seduced me.”

“That’s different.  And if I recall, it was the other way around!”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!  Yes, it matters!”

She couldn’t tell if they were actually arguing, like they were having some sort of domestic drama during the middle of their mission, or if she was just too caught up in her teasing and him being flustered to put an end to it.  Either way, she knew she needed to.  They had a job to do.

But she didn’t end it.  This was too cute.  Furthermore, it was probably a once in a lifetime opportunity.  Steve was a blusher; that was for sure.  Even mention sex around him and he went red all the way down his perfect face and perfect neck to his perfect, _perfect_ chest.  He hadn’t been a virgin in months (she knew that for a fact), but he still flushed like one.  It was adorable, too adorable to resist, even on the job.  “So basically you’re saying I don’t count.”

“Of course, you count!  You’re the only one that does!  I love you.  That’s one of the many reasons I can’t do this.”

“You don’t need to…”  Now she did roll her eyes.  “… _go all the way._   You just need to get close enough to get into the room, get her fingerprint, get her retinal scan–”

“Get her retinal scan!” he hissed in abhorrence, like somehow _that_ was the worst of it.

“–and get to the computer.  Plant the bug.  Get out.  Piece of cake.”

“It would be for you!”  Honestly, if he blushed any hotter, his cheeks would be burning.  “I’m a terrible liar.  You said so yourself.  You called me wholesome and earnest and America’s golden boy and she’s gonna see right through me.  I’m not cut out for this.  I’ll mess it up, and then she’ll figure out what we’re here for and bring every guard in the place down on us.  Forget failing our op.  We’d be lucky to get out _alive_.” 

“Stop.”  Enough with the teasing.  He was genuinely flustered about this, and she loved him too much to let him be this upset.  He calmed down, holding her gaze.  The dance was nearing its end, and they needed to make a decision quickly.  “If you can’t do this, it’s fine.  It really is.  This isn’t what you were trained for.”  She said that with absolute sincerity.  He looked doubtful despite that, though.  She didn’t want him to do that, to feel bad or pushed into this because of guilt or her expectations.  Still, there was no denying some basic facts.  “But if you don’t do it, we need to abort.  SHIELD may lose its chance to put Allard behind bars.  This has been the only opportunity in months to get close to him.”

 _Really_ she didn’t intend to push his buttons, even if she knew exactly how to play him.  Appealing to his sense of morality and duty always worked.  He was Captain America, and she knew he’d do _anything_ see the bad guys stopped and innocent people protected.  Allard wasn’t himself that evil, but without him, terrorist cells, arms and drug dealers, and evil regimes across the globe couldn’t operate.  They had an unprecedented opportunity to do good here, and she knew Steve would take it.

And he did.  “Damn it,” he whispered.  “Alright.  What do I do?”

The waltz was over, and everywhere guests stood and clapped.  The head of the Board of Directors was now chatting with Allard, likely preparing to introduce him.  She gripped Steve’s hand tightly a moment.  “Go to the men’s room in the northwest corridor.  I’ll meet you there in a few.”  She didn’t turn to see if he’d heard her rushed whisper over the applause, clapping loudly herself.  He left, though, without another word, so she figured he had.

Natasha waited a moment, watching Savatier, trying to gather as much information as she could from mannerisms, expressions, and body language in order to best arm Steve.  Whoever she was, she was cold, very stern, very professional.  She smiled now and then, but it never sparked her eyes.  She stood proudly, unbending, towering, even, over Allard’s business partners.  The only time she did genuinely grin was when she was doing that, putting the men in their place with a sharp look or a curt phrase.  She liked power; that much was obvious.  She liked control, too.  She _liked_ dominance.  _Oh, boy._   Ideally that was good, but as Natasha turned to make her way toward her rendezvous, she got the distinct impression she was sending her boyfriend into a spider’s web.  _Ironic._

She grabbed her handbag and started walking.  She turned heads everywhere she went with the way she was dressed, the gown and the jewels and her glossy, red curls, but no one was brave enough to do more than gawk at her.  She walked with her head high, too, eyes forward and a cold air all of her own that screamed _“not interested”._   She didn’t bother with knocking when she arrived at the bathroom.  Boldly, she strolled right in.

There was no one there but Steve.  She didn’t wait, her heels clacking on the tiles as she charged across the room and pulled Steve into a stall.  “Anyone comes in,” she gasped, pressing him tight to the wall to get the door shut, “you’re showing me a good time.”  Now she did kiss him.  Hard.  She’d wanted to all night, and she couldn’t fight it any longer.  The rush of what she was sending him to do made it worse, a knot of anxiety and excitement and jealousy – _I have to admit that_ – tight in her belly.  He groaned into her mouth, and she finally pulled away to let him have a breath.  _Guess ravaging each other’s off the table, though._ “I’ve said it before about PDA.”

“You know you’re not helping,” he gasped.  “Not that anything can help, I guess.”

Worriedly she watched him.  Again, she wasn’t going to push him.  “You sure you want to do this?  You don’t have to.”

He tipped his head to the ceiling.  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he stiffly swallowed.  “No.”

She smirked, kissing his throat.  “Consider it on-the-job training.”

He grunted a laugh, and she couldn’t help but kiss him again, reaching up to cup his jaw and pull his face down to hers.  This time it wasn’t as hungry or passionate but rather loving.  Comforting even, as odd as that was.  Then he heaved a short sigh, visibly gathering himself, before opening surprisingly calm and clear eyes and meeting her gaze.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m sure.”  He cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up in a hint of a smile.  He swept a thumb down her face.  “It’ll be fun, right?”

Every time she thought she couldn’t love him more, she did.  “Of course.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  I have things to help you.”  She grabbed her handbag and opened it, revealing all the goodies the techs at the Hub had given her during her portion of the mission brief.  “You’ll need them.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion as he inspected the contents of her little purse.  “What is all this?”

“This…”  She pulled out a glass vial, thin and cylindrical, that contained a blush colored liquid.  It seemed like perfume.  “This is what we in the world of espionage call an accelerator.  It’s an extremely potent, extremely intoxicating, extremely experimental mixture of pheromones, aphrodisiacs, and other goodies to get someone relaxed and interested.  One spray of this and you’ll have her crawling all over you.”

Steve looked patently confused and a little horrified.  “Wait.  All the times you…”  He didn’t specify what, but it was pretty obvious he was talking about her prior seductions.  He took the perfume vial and examined it more closely.  “You were using this?”

“Not all the time.  It’s risky because it can screw you up as much as it does them, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you with the serum.  And it doesn’t last long.  Ten, fifteen minutes at the most.  Still, I wouldn’t let this loose near anyone else.  You’re going to want to wait until it’s just the two of you, because anyone else who gets a whiff might be drawn to you, too, and considering how hot you are already–”

“Don’t,” he said with a wince.

“–you’ll have every woman in the place clambering for a piece of you.”

He shook his head, not amused and clearly bothered by the imagery.  “I spray her or me?”

“You.”

“That won’t look weird at all, a big guy like me puttin’ a spritz of perfume on.”

Natasha smiled slyly.  “Think on your feet.  She’ll still be with it enough to know clearly what’s going on.  She’ll just suddenly decide you’re the hottest thing she’s ever seen and probably throw herself at you.  Or demand you throw yourself at her.”  Steve flushed and looked like a deer in headlights.  Natasha tried not to be amused.  She twisted the little gold top of the bottle a half a turn counter-clockwise.  “Turn it like this and you get a spray of something to knock her unconscious.  Also useful for when you’ve decided it’s gone far enough or you want an out.  If you can time it right, she might wake up thinking she just had too much to drink or something of the like.”

“Doubt it,” Steve responded.  Frankly, Natasha did, too.  Granted she didn’t know anything about Savatier other than the few minutes she’d spent studying her, but the woman didn’t seem the type to let go at a party for a fun, anonymous romp.  Steve sighed as he clicked the nozzle back to the original position.  “Alright.  What else?”

“Put this in.”  Natasha pulled a small case out of her bag.  Inside, immersed in a small pool of saline, was what looked like a contact lens.  “Carefully.  Rip it and we’re out of business.”

She put the case in his hand.  He turned around to do as she said.  “What’s this?”

“High-tech retinal scanner.  It’ll record her retinal imprint and then project it over your own.  She needs to look you in the eye, though.”

He shifted as he put the lens in his right eye.  “There a catch?”

“Her eye needs to be within eight centimeters of yours.”

Steve sighed again, this time shortly.  “So up close and personal.”

“You got it.”

He turned around, blinking rapidly as the lens settled.  Even though they needed to get moving before they lost Savatier or anyone found them, she reached up to wipe a wayward tear away.  “What about the fingerprint?” he asked.

“That you need to get the old fashioned way.  I think you’re right about her knowing something’s up afterward no matter what, so I’d drop her, carry her over to the computer, and do it while she’s unconscious.  The bug–”  This was the last thing she handed him.  It was tiny, no larger than a dime, but extremely powerful.  Designed by Stark Industries, it could hack into any computer system it was near, copy sensitive information, and transmit it directly to SHIELD.  “–needs to be planted near the laptop.  Put it someplace less obvious if you can.  The techs at the Hub told me we just need a few minutes.”

“After I unlock the system with her biodata.”

“Right.”

“Why not just knock her out to begin with?”

“Because the retinal scanner needs her eye reactive and focusing in order to get an accurate imprint.  And…”  She sighed.  “She needs to say her name by the laptop.  That activates the login protocol.”

Steve looked at her like she’d sprouted an additional head.  “What, this wasn’t hard enough?”

Natasha shrugged, smiling helplessly.  That only made him seem more out his element.  “She’ll be extremely open to persuasion, in a sense, but it’ll be easier to do this if you, um… _act_ like what she wants.”

He gave her an extremely flat look.  “What she wants.”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t even know she was a _she_ until five minutes ago!  How the hell do you know what she wants?”

Natasha shushed him before he got more worked up and attracted unwanted attention.  They were alone in here, but a lifetime as a spy had long taught her never to assume no one was watching.  “It’s in her body language.  Not that all women in power _love_ power, but some do.  And I think she’s one who does.  So what you need to do is act…”  She winced, trying to find a word that wouldn’t make this seem so bad.  “Compliant?”

“God.”

“Submissive.”

“That’s not me.  I can’t do that!”

“That’s why it’s called espionage.  You need to lie and act and trick people into thinking you’re something you’re not.”  He looked horrified.  “Just act like you’re acting now.  Flustered.  Nervous.  She’ll feed off that, especially with you looking like… you.  Trust me.”  Horror was suddenly tinging on panic, and he grimaced.  Natasha pressed close again.  “You don’t have to do this,” she softly reminded once more, “but if you want to salvage this op, you need to get her to think you’re gonna be a fun time, everything what she’s looking for, so much so that she’ll take a chance on you, and then drop her cold once you get her where you want her.  Got it?”

He actually smiled.  It was a shit-eating grin to be certain, one of his snarkier ones.  People would be surprised to learn how sassy Captain America could be when it suited him.  She liked that she knew that and knew it so well.  “Yes, ma’am?”

She smiled back.  “Now you’re getting it.”

He sucked in a deep breath, a centering one, shaking his arms and rolling his neck and shoulders like he was loosening up before a fight.  “Should’ve stayed in the army,” he muttered.  “Alright.  I knocked Adolf Hitler out over two hundred times.  I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she agreed, trying to sound more certain than she felt.  Not that she didn’t think he’d try, give it his all in fact, but the fact was he was who he was.  Aside from the USO shows and his movies he’d done as part of the World War II propaganda machine (and she had to be honest: those were _terrible_ ), he had zero experience trying to be someone other than Steve Rogers.  Steve Rogers was straight-laced, heart on his sleeves, what-you-see-is-what-you-get.  Steve Rogers was iron-clad morals and integrity and honesty.  Steve Rogers was Captain America.

But if he didn’t do this, the only choice left was abort and extract.  She _hated_ walking away from a mission defeated, particularly when there was a chance to succeed.  “I’ll stay on comms,” she promised, “and try to help.”

“You guard our exits,” he corrected, his tone cool and commanding, “because if this goes south, we need to get out in a hurry.”

She nodded.  “Understood.”

He slid the tube of “perfume” in his pants, put the bug in the breast pocket of his jacket, blinked a bunch of times to settle the lens in his eye, and straightened his tux.  “Ready.”

She opened the stall, and he walked out, the picture of cool confidence.  And she couldn’t help herself yet again.  She swatted his butt on the way by.  “Go get ’em, tiger.”

He glared at her over his shoulder, and she smiled and waved.  After he was gone, though, she sucked in a deep breath of her own.  She walked out of the stall and to the sink, checking her reflection briefly to make sure she still looked the part.  She pulled an actual tube of lipstick from her handbag, put it on, and tried not to notice that her heart was beating harder and her hand was shaking ever so slightly.  _Please let this be okay.  Please let him be able to handle this.  Please._

The door to the men’s room swung open again, and a guy stood there, watching her in shock and alarm.  In a blink, Black Widow was back.  She replaced her makeup back in her bag, took an extra moment examining her hair just to seem unbothered and unhurried, and boldly adjusted her bosom in her dress just to intimidate the guy.  His eyes were as wide as saucers, and if his jaw opened any wider, he’d be drooling.  “Thanks for getting the door,” she remarked as she passed him.

“Uh, you’re welcome?”

It wasn’t until she was well out into the ballroom that it occurred to her that not only had she sent Steve into a situation for which he wasn’t terribly well-equipped, she was going to have to listen to him and even coach him through it.  _And,_ she realized with a grim twinge of ugly jealousy, she was going to have to listen to another woman put her paws on her man.

That was worse.

 _Please let_ me _be able to handle this._

* * *

Getting Savatier away from Allard proved to be a challenge.  Obviously to her this was a business function, so even as her boss laughed and schmoozed with his guests, she remained a rather humorless stick in the mud.  She hardly smiled, hardly did anything other than coolly appraise the ball like she was judging each person by the weight of their pocketbooks.  That wasn’t ideal for what they needed to do.  Natasha stood further away, another glass of champagne in her hand, watching Savatier like a hawk.  “You’re gonna have to make a move here,” she murmured softly.

Steve was trying to seem nonchalant off to the left, making a point _not_ to look at his mark.  Honestly, he probably could stand to gawk at her just a little.  Let her see he was ogling (or fake-ogling anyway) and embarrassed about it.  “’m working on it,” he gritted out.  “Don’t rush me.”

“Just get in there.  Get your foot in the door.  Offer to get her a drink.”

“They’re serving drinks,” Steve replied tautly.

“They’re serving champagne.  She hasn’t touched it.  Offer to get her something from the bar.”  Steve _fidgeted._   She could see him fuss anxiously, shifting his weight, staring nervously at his feet, work himself up like he _never_ did even before the most dangerous of battles.  Natasha sighed.  “Allard’s going to break off here, I think.  When he does, you go.”

“I can’t–”

_“Go.”_

For a moment she feared he wouldn’t, that his legs were glued to the floor by his apprehension, but as Allard walked away, laughing loudly with a few business partners and opera aficionados, Steve shook himself loose and strolled over to Savatier.  And, to his credit, he employed a ruse.  It was the oldest, safest one in the book, of course, but it was better than going over there and straight up introducing himself.  He somewhat obviously stumbled behind her, knocking her gently, and his glass of champagne sloshed ever so slightly on her dress.  “Oh, my gosh!” he stammered.  “Your dress!  Geez, I’m _so sorry_ , ma’am.  Really.  Silly me, what a mess I’ve made.”

“Dial it back a notch,” Natasha warned, watching as Steve quickly worked to wipe the tiny wet spot on Savatier’s dress with a cocktail napkin.  Her eyes flashed in cold, vicious fury at his clambering – _this is going to be harder than I thought_ – but when Steve dropped to his knees in front of her to clean up the small puddle of spilled champagne on the floor by her shoes, her eyes flashed with something Natasha recognized right away.  _Hunger._   It was just a wink of it, but it was there nonetheless.  She was right about this woman.

Either Steve was a natural at this or blundering into the best way imaginable to get at her.  “Let me, uh…”  He mopped the floor up more.  “I’m sorry.”

Savatier’s pink lips twisted into a small smile.  Natasha considered herself a strong-willed woman, and she had excellent control over her emotions, but the sight of that little grin was enough to turn her stomach.  “You missed a spot,” Savatier said, her French accent thick on her deep voice.  She gestured at it with the toe of her shoe, nearly stepping on his hand.

“Um, right.  Yeah.  Yeah, I did.”  Steve wiped that tiny droplet up and pushed himself to his feet.  “Let me, uh, let me get you a drink?  It’s the least I can do, and I need another anyway after…”  He offered up a dopey, adorable smile.  Wholesome, earnest, all-American boy.  He was laying it on thick.  “After I made a mess here.  What are you having?”

“Not necessary,” Savatier responded.

“Please.  I’d feel better.”

She positively glared at him.  “What makes you think I care about how you feel?”

“Um…”

But she went for it, anyway.  “But if you insist.  Martini.”  No please.  No thank you.  This woman really did think herself above men.  As much as Natasha didn’t like Steve being in this position, that might make this easier.

“Okay, a martini.  I’ll, um, I’ll be right back.”  Steve scurried off to the bar across the ballroom floor, avoiding the latest round of couples dancing, and Savatier watched his every step like a spider (and Natasha would know, of course).  She fought the impetus to glare (or interfere).  This wasn’t about her relationship with Steve.  No matter how important that was to her (and, God, it was important), she couldn’t let her emotions compromise her.  Those sorts of things had to come second on ops like this.  He’d been prepared to watch (well, not literally _watch_ , but still) her seduce another man to get what they needed.  He’d been ready to let her do whatever she deemed necessary to get the job done.  She had to afford him the same level of trust and respect.  But, damn, it was harder than she’d thought it would be.

Steve stood at the bar.  His back was somewhat to her, but she could see he was fiddling with his phone.  Of all the times to be doing that…  “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.

“Checking the Dodgers scores,” he blithely returned over the comm link.  He stuffed his phone back in his pocket of his jacket when the bartender returned with the drinks.  Then he walked back to her, bearing her martini and another flute of champagne for himself.  “Sorry again.  You probably think I’m some sort of clumsy oaf.”

She cocked an eyebrow, sipping her drink.  “Indeed.”

He wasn’t daunted.  “Really.  I hope I didn’t ruin your dress.  My ma would be turning over in her grave if she knew I’d spilled my drink all over a pretty dame.”

“No fake charm,” Natasha hissed.  “She’ll see through it.  And don’t fall into talking like it’s the 40s!”

Steve stiffened ever so slightly.  Natasha knew no one else could hear her (well, at least Savatier couldn’t), but his body language was suspicious.  He needed to recover quickly, and he did.  He thrust his hand forward.  “I’m Paul.  Paul Anderson,” he said, picking one of their cover stories that the Hub had created for him.  Smartly, he chose one that wasn’t a professional threat to her, selecting the persona of a professional football player.  It also wasn’t likely she’d know anything about that, so his story would only need to have surface validity.  “I’m a backup quarterback for the 49ers.”

This was kind of a make or break moment.  If she responded, she was interested.  If not…  She stared at him like she was measuring him up.  Steve faltered and started to drop his hand.  When Savatier saw that, she smiled faintly.  “Annalise,” she replied, almost genially if not for that glint in her eyes.  Natasha moved a little closer, making an effort to seem uncaring, praying that Steve saw this lady for what she was.  He would, of course.  He might not be the world’s most suave or confident (or _competent_ ) when it came to wooing women, but he wasn’t a complete moron.  He was dating her, after all.  “Annalise Savatier.”

“That’s a really nice name.  Really pretty,” Steve complimented.  Natasha winced, turning away so she wouldn’t have to see this.  “French?”

“Yes,” Savatier replied.

“Wow.”  And with that, the conversation went _abruptly_ cold.  It was so quiet that Natasha immediately got worried.  She chanced another glance a moment later when her concern overrode her need to be inconspicuous.  He was just standing there next to her, looking as lost and helpless as she was starting to feel.  She caught his gaze for a split second, just long enough for him to shoot her a pleading frown.  She tipped her head back toward Savatier, managing a nod for him.  Hopefully it was encouraging.  _Go for it._ Steve took a breath.  “So…  You come here often?”

Natasha could have face-palmed.  Literally smacked her forehead with her hand.  As it was, she only cringed and awaited what she was sure would be a scathing reply.  She wasn’t disappointed.  “You can’t be serious.”

“I am?  I mean, I just thought…  Well, you being French and all…  You like the opera?”  God, he was terrible.  Forget about getting up to Allard’s suite.  This wasn’t going to move past here and now.  “’Cause I don’t.  I mean, I like it, but I don’t know anything about it.  That’s what I meant to say.”

“Are you normally this inarticulate?”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he blushed.  “Ah, no.  Pretty girls tend to turn me into a moron.”

“It’s either that or all the blows you take to your head during the stupid game you play.”

 _Ouch._ “It’s not like that.”

“Truly?

“No.  I mean, you do get hit a lot, but it’s fine.  Do you know anything about football?  American football, that is.  I know they call soccer ‘football’ over here and we call soccer ‘soccer’ and what we have for football isn’t anything like soccer…”  Was he purposefully trying to sink this?  Someone who didn’t know him as well as she did wouldn’t have noticed the nervousness (well, the real nervousness under all the fake nervousness) in his voice.  He was trying.  But if Natasha had been in Savatier’s shoes, she would have kicked this random boy to the curb minutes ago.  “Anyway, I’m a football player.  But I think I said that.  Didn’t I?”  _Ugh._   She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry or just rush over there, snatch him by the arm, drag him away, and call for freaking extraction.  “So I can tell you about it, if you want.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Another tense, terrible moment of silence came.  It was so thick and awkward that she could practically _feel_ it across the comm link.  She stole another look to find Steve still standing side by side with Savatier.  The other woman hadn’t cruelly dropped him or called Allard’s bodyguards to haul to him away, so something must have been going right.  Still, this wasn’t going to avail them, at least not fast enough if it did at all.  “Enough small talk,” Natasha declared quietly.  “She’s turned off by it.  Just be direct.”

“So…  Um…  Uh…”  _God._   This was painful.  Like watching a train wreck in slow motion.  _Excruciatingly slow_ slow motion.  “Well, I came here with a ballerina from the Met, but she…  She kinda ditched me.  I think she’s laughing it up with a trumpet player or something like that.  I don’t know instruments.  Anyway, I’m all alone here, and I was wondering if you might–”

Savatier glared at him anew like he was a bug she was contemplating squishing.  “Might what?”

Steve shrugged.  “Might want to go somewhere quiet.  Talk.  Have our drinks.  Something like that.”  Natasha wouldn’t have been so pussy-footed about it.  She would have dangled sex in front her mark in varying amounts until he took the bait.  But Steve wasn’t like that, at least not with anyone _ever_ other than her (and she was so secretly proud of that and honored by it that part of her was _glad_ he sucked so bad at this).  “You know, get to know each other.”

“You can’t be serious,” she retorted again.

“I am.  Absolutely.”  She narrowed her eyes at him in disgust.  “Why not?  Are you here with anyone?”

“I’m working, if you must know.”

Steve seemed flummoxed by that for a moment.  Then he recovered and shrugged.  “Alright, so, take a break.”  This was falling apart.  Natasha could see it happen, and she was _helpless._   There was nothing she could tell Steve to salvage the situation.  Either he did it on his own with this earnest “date” act, or the op was over after Savatier rebuked him.  Natasha could practically _see_ that rebuke frothing on her perfect lips.  “Come on,” Steve cajoled.  “What have you got to lose?  It could be fun.  You know that song?  ‘Take a Chance on Me’?”  Lord, he was trying to use modern pop culture references.  ABBA, no less.  _Abort, Rogers.  Abort!_   “Take a chance on me, darling.”

 _Oh, God!_ Savatier’s eyes flashed.  “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are or who you think I am, but you have no business speaking with me.  Whatever game you’re playing?  I’m not–”

“There’s no game,” Steve quickly assured.  “I don’t play games.  Well, except football.  But my ma raised me right, and I sure don’t play with pretty women who deserve a good time.”  Natasha thought it was too quick, too earnest, but then he cleared his throat a little and dropped his eyes and his tone.  “Ma’am.”

He couldn’t have played that card any better.  That hungry look in Savatier’s eyes came right _back_ like Steve had hit a magical switch.  Natasha watched her size him up anew, like she was seeing him in a different light, like a predator trying to decide if killing and eating this prey she’d found was worth the effort.  And it was.  Steve was attractive in ways that went well beyond handsomeness and right into the territory of male beauty.  If Savatier was the sort that judged things by their obvious, outward worth, money and influence and utility and allure, she’d see that.  Furthermore, if she was the sort that _dominated_ men and enjoyed it, well, she wouldn’t pass this opportunity up, not with a slab of innocent, blond beefcake offering himself up to her.

Sure enough, she didn’t.  “Allow me to make sure I have this straight.  You want to ‘get to know each other’,” she said in a way that did nothing to hide the double entendre.  “ _Alone._   Someplace else.  In private.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve replied, “if you want.  I want to do whatever you want.”

Natasha turned away.  She couldn’t make herself watch it.  Her brain did a fantastic job conjuring up the images at any rate.  Savatier glanced at Allard to see if she’d be missed if she slipped away for a bit.  Then she was staring at Steve like she wanted to destroy him.  Her perfectly tapered fingernail trailed down his chest.  “Alright.  You don’t say anything about this to anyone, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me at the back left elevator in five minutes.  Do not be one second late.  Can you do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.  Now go.”

Natasha glanced back just in time to see Steve nod.  Then he moved away, obviously jittery.  Savatier watched him leave, her gaze lingering almost lasciviously, and Natasha had to fight with every ounce of self-restraint she had not to make a move.  Savatier eventually smiled smugly to herself and walked off.

“I’m in,” Steve quietly declared over the comm link, startling Natasha from some rather murderous thoughts.

She should have been more relieved and more pleased with that.  “So you are.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Minor miracle, right?  Got her to say her name, too.”

She was so overthrown by the idea of him trying to seduce another woman that she’d forgotten why, so that made no sense.  “Huh?”

“Recorded it on my phone.  Set it up when I was checking the Dodgers score.”  He was cleverer than most people realized.  “So one down.  Two to go.”

She didn’t like this, but she felt she had to compliment him.  “Nicely handled.”

“Well, sometimes I can figure technology out.  And I’m not exactly the blushing virgin I once was.”  He was trying to be light and airy about this, but it wasn’t working.  He wasn’t that blushing virgin anymore, but that was because he was with her.  He’d only ever slept with her.  She was the only one he kissed, the only one to whom he made love.  The only one he loved.  Suddenly this thing she’d done dozens of times in the past without thinking twice seemed foul, unpleasant, and decidedly _wrong._   Not so much because she felt bad for their mark, but because his body was _hers_ and _hers_ alone.  Her body was _his_.  That wasn’t just what _she_ wanted.  It was what _he_ wanted, too, and now he was going to use himself as if his body were a tool, another resource like his shield or a gun in SHIELD’s war against evil.  And she knew sex was just sex sometimes.  Kissing was just kissing.  It wasn’t love.  It wasn’t even intimacy.  She’d done it _so many times_ without any regard for the implications or consequences.

But right now she felt dizzy and breathless like she was _losing something._

She caught a glimpse of him working his way to the back of the ballroom.  “Okay, I’m doing this,” he resolutely declared.  “Going spray myself with the… whatever it is when I get to the elevator and… go from there.”

“Steve?”  Using their real names over comms while undercover was foolhardy and stupid, but she couldn’t stop herself.

He stopped in the rear of the room.  He didn’t dare look at her, and that was just as well.  “What?”

She closed her eyes.  “You don’t have to do this,” she reminded again.

“I know.  You would, though.”

“I’m…  I’m not you.  And you shouldn’t have to compromise yourself just for the mission.”

Steve actually grunted a little laugh.  “And you should?”

“Don’t argue.”

“I know what I’m doing.  I can handle it.”

She knew he could handle himself better than anyone on the battlefield.  But this wasn’t a battle like that, and all the on-the-job training in the world might not be enough to protect him from… _her._   “Be careful,” she whispered.

“Will do.”

* * *

Being on the other side of this was godawful.  Natasha had never realized that before.  She usually worked ops like this alone unless she needed backup or protection, and she’d always been the one _completing_ the mission.  Doing the seducing, stealing the data, and getting out.  She flat-out was not prepared for how hard it was to stay put and wait.  She had to be vigilant; she was their only defense against being detected at this point.  It was her job to keep their exits clear, to keep an eye on Allard and distract him if he noticed Savatier was gone, to gather what intel she could on the party guests who were there to do ill.  But the second she heard Savatier’s sultry voice over the comm link, her brain shut off completely and all she could do was focus on the conversation by the elevator to which she was electronically privy.  “I thought you might reconsider,” Savatier purred.  Gone was the cold condescension.  “You obviously don’t know what’s best for you.”

“I know you’re beautiful,” Steve returned.  She knew it was an act, but that _stung._   He hesitated a moment.  “I know I want you.”

Savatier laughed, a deep sound that reminded Natasha of something overly sweet and overly thick.  Like molasses.  “Do you?”

Steve laughed, too, but it was nervous.  “Sure.  Like I said, you’re gorgeous.  I want to show you a good time.  You look like you need it.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking, do you.”

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer.  The elevator dinged.  “Where are we going?”

“Some place private, as you said.  The particulars don’t concern you.”

“What if I want them to concern me?”

There was something feral in her voice, a warning clearly but not just that that was off-limits.  A warning that _she_ wanted this and he was to do nothing to interfere with her getting what she desired.  “They don’t concern you,” she brusquely said again.  Then she went absolutely silent.  Natasha squinted, staring at the glamorous ball, worry spiking through her.  There was a low, throaty groan, barely audible.  She knew it well enough because she’d heard it enough times in the past.  Savatier had taken a breath full of the accelerator.  She swore lowly in French, her voice rough and deep with arousal and a touch of confusion.  “What…  What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something…”  She took another breath, a deeper one, so loud that Natasha could hear it.  That had to mean she was close to Steve.  _Really_ close.  Breathing him in.  Natasha’s gut twisted in the most darkly intense sensation of jealousy she’d ever known.  More than jealousy.  _Possessiveness._   But it was too damn late, and this had been _her_ bad idea, and they were committed now.  There was nothing she could do but listen and silently fume.  “Something’s… different about you.”

“Huh?”

“You smell…”  Natasha could practically hear the other woman shudder.  The elevator dinged again, and the doors slid open.  Savatier was panting now, hot and heavy, practically in Steve’s ear.  The sound was revolting.  She’d never experienced seducing someone this way before.  Like waiting, it was godawful.  “I want to _devour_ you.  You…  You’re–”

“Ma’am?”

Suddenly there was the sound of feet shuffling.  A back hitting a wall.  In her mind’s eye, she saw Savatier manhandling Steve ( _manhandling Captain America!_ ) into the elevator.  Shoving him against the other side, holding him there with her slight form that was now pumped full of endorphins and aphrodisiacs, and making good on what she’d said.  _Devouring him_.  Something sounded like it ripped – _not his shirt,_ please – and there was gasping and what could have been kissing and–

_“You’re mine.”_

The sound cut off.

Natasha physically jerked.  No one was watching her now, and that was a damn good thing because she needed a few seconds to process what had just happened, let alone get a handle on herself.  Her heart was thundering, her own breath coming in shallow, fast pants.  Her eyes were wide, and a cold sweat felt clammy and uncomfortable all over her body.  It wasn’t wise to call to him as it could compromise his mission, but _yet again_ she couldn’t help herself.  “Rogers, you copy?”  There was no answer.  “Come in.”  Nothing.  Her heart beat harder and faster.  “Steve, do you read me?”

Silence.

_Shit._

She looked up, slipping out of the tunnel vision in which she’d been trapped for the last few minutes.  Just because his comm had gone out didn’t _mean_ anything.  She forced herself to remember that.  There were times on missions were it was prudent to go silent, to remove distractions or the threat of discovery.  She’d done it herself a lot of times.  Also, as much as she didn’t want to think about it, there was the possibility that he’d switched off so she wouldn’t have to hear him _make out_ with another woman.  Or so that he could do said making out without having to think about her listening.  Guilt and shame abounds.  What the hell had she been thinking, suggesting this?  _And what’s with the double standard?  You would have done what he’s doing now, and he probably wouldn’t have said anything.  He would have thought it, though.  You know it.  He would have stood here feeling just as shitty as you feel right now and it sucks being on the other side of this.  My God.  It’s terrible._ She felt sick, like the room was spinning just a little.  She could hold her liquor better than anyone she knew, but she felt like she’d had too much from just the couple of glasses of champagne.  She felt pathetic and angry and helpless.

And there was _nothing_ she could do but wait.

The minutes dragged by.  Where she’d worked the floor before, light and flirty, now she clung to the back, to the shadows, skulking like a cat on the prowl in another cat’s territory.  Nervous energy made her skin tingle, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t quiet her heart.  She’d never felt like this before, queasy with worry and unsettled.  Deeply anxious and vulnerable.  She watched the other guests enjoy the dancing and the drinks, watched them laugh and chat, and all she could think about was that woman touching Steve.  Him kissing her.  It going further than that.  _You’re better than this,_ she thought over and over again.  _This is the job, and you know better than to be jealous.  You know that.  So stop._

What the hell was taking so long?

It felt like an eternity was passing.  In reality, she knew it hadn’t been more than twenty minutes, but those twenty little minutes were seemingly the longest of her life.  She tried to concentrate on her task.  She kept an eye on Allard, who thankfully seemed not to notice or care that his right-hand woman was missing.  He was calmly and confidently drinking and laughing it up with his guests, donning the sort of arrogance common to those who thought they were untouchable.  Natasha couldn’t help but silently hate him for causing this situation, saddling him with icy glares he of course didn’t notice, and she smugly wondered if he knew just how close his whole operation was to exposure.  She dropped that train of thought, though, because it led right back to her concerns about Steve and whatever was going on up in Savatier’s suite (assuming that was where he was – she had no way to tell).  She turned to watch the hotel’s entrance, flanked as it was by security.  Watching it and wishing this was over.  God, she couldn’t think, couldn’t focus.  This was torturous.

It kept going and going.  As the minutes slipped away, twenty becoming thirty, thirty becoming _forty_ , her worry rose and rose like a tidal wave out in the ocean.  Pretty soon it was in a fever pitch.  It took everything she had to _stay_ where she was and not go charging up to find Steve and save him.  Surely something was going wrong.  She didn’t think Steve would ever abandon his morals, ever lose his way, and she didn’t think Savatier could hurt him, physically at least.  But the mere thought of the man she loved at that woman’s mercy made her quiver in rage.  _I need to do something.  It’s been too long._ She scanned the ballroom again, but nothing had changed.  People were still enjoying themselves.  Allard was still oblivious.  And Steve wasn’t back yet.  What could he be doing?  As ridiculous as it was (and it was ridiculous), she started comparing this to similar operations she’d had in the past.  How long had it taken the accelerator to wear off?  How long had it taken her to get the man where she wanted him?  Steve wasn’t experienced, so it was conceivable he might need more time, but _this_ much time?  Had he been discovered?  Her worries immediately switched from his “relations” with Savatier to the very real possibility that he’d been made and had been captured or worse.  These guys weren’t as much of a threat as most of the villains with whom they normally dealt, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.  _Something’s wrong.  He’s in trouble.  I have to help him._   That thrummed through her, and her patience frayed until it was dangling by a thread.  She started to reach for the gun strapped to her thigh.  _That’s it.  I’m going up there.  I’m–_

Her phone beeped.  Startled (and once again praying no one had seen her jump), she reached into her bag and pulled it out.  It was an encrypted message from SHIELD.  _“Data dump complete.  Extraction in ten minutes.”_   She read the text twice before it sunk in.  The bug had been planted, and SHIELD had copied the data.  That could only have happened if Steve had succeeded.  _Steve did it._   Her relief was palpable, and all she could do was feel that for a moment.

Then the horror set in.  _Steve did it._

Now she _really_ had to wait.  Presumably Savatier was knocked out and he was on his way back down.  There was no way to confirm that, so she had to hope.  He would have gotten that message on his phone, too (if he still had his phone or had the capacity to get to his phone).  So he’d come down.  She just needed to wait for him.

So she did.  She redoubled her efforts to drift through the crowded ballroom, keeping an eye on security for any sign that they’d been detected.  There didn’t seem to be any.  She darted her eyes among the dancers, Allard, and their exit.  Again each minute seemed to drag away, and there was _still_ no sign of Steve.  She checked her phone.  Five minutes left.  If they missed the extraction, it wasn’t like they couldn’t just _walk_ out.  And that was what she’d do if Steve didn’t show up in the next five minutes.  _No, I’m going to go up there if he’s not back.  I’m going to find him._   For time plodding on in an infinite march of seconds after seconds, when she looked at her phone again and found only two minutes remained, she was shocked and alarmed.  _Where is he?_   Her heart was pounding.  Wildly she scanned her surroundings yet again, knowing it was obvious to anyone watching her that she was looking for someone and not giving a damn.  _Where?  Where?_

“Hey.”

Natasha practically jumped out of her skin at the soft sound.  She whirled and found him standing right behind her.  He had a little smile on his lips.  He didn’t even look so much as flushed, his eyes calm and controlled.  His hair was a bit skewed, though, like he’d tried to straighten it after it had been mussed and hadn’t quite succeeded.  His tux looked mostly intact, but there was a button missing on the collar of the shirt so that when he’d redone the bowtie it wasn’t sitting quite right.  And there was a large, damp spot that started over his sternum and extended under his jacket.  Nobody else would have noticed those things, but she did immediately.  She was Black Widow.  She noticed everything.

Like the smudge of pink lipstick on his chin.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she replied, stuffing her disquiet and jealousy and ignoring the desire to hug him and kiss him and get her smell _off_ him.  She could smell it right away.  Strong perfume.  “Fine.  You?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s done?”

“You got the message, didn’t you?” he returned.  She nodded.  Now he smiled again, but this time it was a bit forced (or was that her projecting her unhappiness on him?  She couldn’t tell anymore).  “Let’s go.”

Like they’d been together the whole time, he boldly took her hand and started to lead her to the door.  Everything felt weird and not right.  She walked, but her limbs seemed like they weren’t her own, weak and rubbery.  Before she knew it, though, they were passing the guards unbothered and strolling out into the cool night.  Sure enough, a black Land Rover was waiting for them at the bottom of the broad steps outside of the hotel.  One of the Paris field agents was there, dressed as security, and he gave them a curt nod.  He went to open the back door for Natasha, but Steve got there first, the gentleman he was, and he did it.  Natasha slid inside, trying not to look as rattled as she was.  The door closed with a thud, and Steve went around to the other side before climbing in beside her.

Then they were off.  She was equal parts relieved and completely uncertain.  The field agents asked for a status update, and Steve answered almost automatically.  After that, as they drove through the beautiful Parisian evening, everyone was silent.  It was awkward and uncomfortable, and what had just happened was eight-hundred pounds of extremely noticeable elephant wedged between them.  The pretty lights outside streaked by on the car windows, soft and pleasant, but all she kept doing was glancing at Steve.  He seemed… relaxed.  She didn’t know what to make of it.  She wanted to ask him.  So _desperately_ she did.  It was one part ludicrous jealousy and one part curiosity.  And it was complete bullshit.  Had their roles been what they _should_ have been, she’d never have tolerated him pressing her about what happened.  _Never._   She would have bitten his head off for the mere hint of impropriety and told him to trust her.  This was a terrible double standard.

She was having a _really_ hard time controlling herself tonight.

The second the field agents parked them in the garage underneath the SHIELD office, she made her move.  “Can you guys give us a minute?”  The two field agents shared a look, but they had no reason to suspect anything was off, so they nodded and did as she asked.  Once they were gone, she just couldn’t hold it in anymore.  “What happened?”

Steve sighed.  “Nat–”

“Why did you turn your comm off?”

His face fractured in a mixture of confusion and hurt, like he hadn’t fathomed until now that this whole thing would upset her.  Why would he?  Even _she_ hadn’t fathomed that.  “She was all over me right around my face.  I was afraid she’d notice.  Or hear you if you said something.”

“I wouldn’t have.  I knew you’d do what you needed to.”

He was astonished.  “What do you think I did?”

“It doesn’t matter.  It’s what was necessary.”

“You told me I didn’t need to go all the way.”

“I know I said that.”  He looked mortified.  _Oh, God._   Had he?  Was that why he was gone for so long?  The accelerator had worn off just fifteen minutes into all that time, and he’d been…  “Did you?”

“Lord, Nat, _really_?  Do you know me at all?”  She looked away, flushing in embarrassment.  “I don’t know whether or not to be offended by the implication or flattered that you’re jealous.”

Irritation irked her.  “I am _not_ jealous,” she retorted, turning back only to find him grinning.  She wanted to smack him.  “I’m not.  This is part of the job.”

“So you keep telling me.”

The awkward silence came back.  The six inches of distance between them in the backseat felt wider than the Grand Canyon.  Despite it being pretty obvious now that he hadn’t slept with Savatier (and of course he hadn’t – what the hell was the matter with her?), she still wanted to know the details.  “So you got her into you, and then you…”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He heaved a sigh.  “It’s not nearly as exciting as you’re thinking.”  Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she frowned.  Conversely, he smiled sheepishly.  “She threw herself at me, yeah.  In the elevator there.  Kissed me a few times.  Ripped my shirt.”  He looked down at his lopsided bowtie and missing button.  “I, uh…  I don’t know.  I played hard to get, I guess, mostly because I was embarrassed to beat the band and frightened out of my mind about what was going to happen.  Then she took me to the suite, and then she got… _really_ interested.  Only as she started taking her dress off I noticed she had a weird tattoo on her shoulder.”

 _Huh?_   “What?”

“Two crosses.  The _Croix de Lorraine._ I recognized it instantly.  It was the emblem of the French freedom fighters during World War II.  Dernier carried it with him on his gear.”  She couldn’t believe that.  Of all the odd coincidences.  “So I played dumb and scared – which sadly wasn’t too hard – and asked her about it while she was trying to… yeah.  And, I kid you not, Nat, she just started crying.”

_“What?”_

“Maybe that drug cocktail you gave me affected her differently than it should have.  Or maybe she gets weepy when she’s turned on beyond belief.”  His lips curled into a smile.  “Beats me.  All I know is all the sudden she’s bawling like a baby in my lap about growing up as a mousy girl with four older brothers on a little farm outside Paris and her father never understood her and her mother died when she was little so she never had anyone to stand up for her.  Her brothers made fun of her and her father never thought she’d amount to anything so she had this _massive_ inferiority complex and on and on…  And she acts the way she acts around men because she spent her life thinking she was nothing more to men than a little girl, incapable of being anything or anyone.  Incapable of being powerful.  And she got the tattoo during her teenage rebellious phase, when her dad tried to send her off to boarding school.  They had some huge falling out.  She kept going, telling me all this stuff like she’d bottled it up for years and the floodgates were open.  Then she started in with working for Allard and how that finally gave her a chance to be dominant, as she put it, only now no one loves her at all and she’s lost all her innocence and she’s worth nothing more than a secretary and she misses her daddy.  She wants to go home, but she doesn’t know if she can bring herself to call him and apologize.  I swear, I’m not making this up.  She just let it all go, and I didn’t have the heart to stop her.”

Natasha couldn’t believe it.  It made sense, she supposed (well, beyond the accelerator turning this woman into an inconsolable, sobbing mess).  It _definitely_ made sense that Steve Rogers with his heart of gold would let their enemy cry it out on his lap, probably whispering solace and petting her hair.  She pictured it, and she couldn’t help her laugh.  That explained the damp splotch on his shirt.

“She cried it out.  And when she was done, suddenly she’s running to the bathroom and throwing up.”  He grimaced.  “At least she made it there.  I went with her, held her hair back…”  _Oh, my God._   “…until she got it all out.  Literally.  And then I held her some more, for a while I guess, and I told her it was okay and she just needed to find her way again and go back home to her family.  Eventually she calmed down and started to fall asleep in my arms.  Before she did, I told her to look me straight in the eye and promise me that she was going to start loving herself, first and foremost.  And she did.”

Natasha laughed again.  “Seriously?”

He flushed with pride now and nodded.  “Uh-huh.  She passed out right then and there.  I carried her out.  Stopped at the laptop.  Unlocked it with the recording, got her fingerprint on the scanner, and used the retinal imprint.  Not so hard with your mark snoring away in a chair while you’re doing it.”  The smug glint in his eyes was downright endearing.  “Planted the bug.  Made sure it was going.  Then I took her to her bedroom and tucked her in.  And that was it.”  He grinned.  “Piece of cake, like you said.”

That awful knot of anxiety in Natasha’s gut loosened instantly, and her heart pumped heavy with love and relief.  “Rogers, only you could turn the world’s worst seduction into a soul-searching therapy session and still get the mission done.”

He looked slightly insulted.  “Hey, I wasn’t that bad.  I got her out of the ballroom, didn’t I?”

She scooted closer to him.  “By the skin of your teeth.  ‘You come here often?’” she parroted in a horrible impression of his voice.  “It was painful just to listen to it.  You were terrible.”

“I was not!”

Any further protests were cut off by her kissing him.  It was hard, possessive, reassuring.  She grabbed his face so he wouldn’t be able to escape (not that he tried) and came even closer so that she was practically straddling his thigh.  He wrapped his arms around her, groaning as he opened her mouth to her advances.  “Well,” he murmured when she pulled away for a breath, “you told me to think on my feet.  So I improvised.”

“Thank God for that,” she returned.  She wiped the errant lipstick from his chin before delving into his mouth again, tangling her hands in his hair tightly.  _This is mine._   Steve sighed contentedly as she squeezed his thigh between hers, and her hand slipped boldly between his legs.  _Mine._   She smiled at her own thoughts against his lips and then kissed him until they were both breathless and gasping.  _All mine._

Before this could go any further, however (and she had _every_ intention of going _all the way_ , SHIELD be damned), there was a light rapping on Steve’s car window.  The windows were tinted but probably not enough to totally obscure what they were doing.  “Romanoff, Rogers, if you two are done sucking face, you could come out here and debrief me.”

The voice was unmistakable.  Steve pushed Natasha off him double quick, eyes wide with horror, panic making his muscles rigid.  He was sporting a somewhat obvious tent in his pants, which he covered up quickly by buttoning his tux jacket and pulling it down.  Natasha eyed that in amusement, but she only smirked, smoothing her dress before opening her car door and getting out.  “Sir,” she greeted coolly.

Fury appraised her.  It was always a little hard to read him, but she could have sworn she saw genuine good cheer in his eye.  “I take it the mission was a success given that you’re making out in the backseat of my car like a couple of horny teenagers.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied evenly.

Steve’s door opened.  He’d composed himself enough, and Fury stood aside to let him stand.  Their boss regarded him curiously.  “How’d it go?”

“Got the job done,” Natasha responded.  She cocked an eyebrow.  “But you might want to tell the agents who did the intel on this one that Allard’s number two?  Not a man.  They should probably be careful about making assumptions next time.”

“Really.”  Fury looked mildly surprised.  Then he quickly put two and two together, like he always did.  “Well,” he started, grinning and punching Steve lightly on the bicep.  “Good going, Cap.  We’ll make a spy out of you yet.”

Steve grimaced.  “Sir, yes, sir.”

Natasha shook her head and smiled.  _On-the-job training indeed._

* * *

This was probably stupid, but Natasha _really couldn’t help herself._

It was a week after the Paris op.  Interpol was in the process of arresting Allard, Savatier, and others in his organization, and SHIELD was running with the data they’d stolen.  In the wake of their resounding success, Steve and Natasha had immediately been reassigned to a rough and tumble melee with a bunch of terrorists in Iraq, so they’d gone and done that with the STRIKE Team the morning after the ball.  Then it had been a crazy altercation with some sort of alien robot army with the rest of the Avengers in Los Angeles.  That had been fun, especially when the robots had somehow gotten control of Iron Man (and all the other computers within a few miles’ radius – poor JARVIS).  Steve had been gone almost constantly since then for a couple of days, helping with the cleanup, working with Stark to ensure something like this couldn’t happen again, coordinating with SHIELD.  Needless to say, outside of work, Natasha had hardly seen him.  It had been frustrating and tiring and more than mildly irritating because after his one-of-a-kind “seduction” (neither one of them had shared the details with SHIELD – suffice it to say, some secrets were best kept secret), she hadn’t been able to think of anything else.  And she needed to “repossess”, as it were.  Stupid, right, but she couldn’t ignore it.  International disasters and the war on terror were not good enough reasons for going a week without anything more than a chaste, passing kiss.

She was changing that tonight.

He called and said he was on his way home from the Triskelion.  Asked if she was hungry.  “No,” she’d said, but _yes,_ she’d thought.  _Hungry for you._   He’d made some tired, noncommittal comment about ordering pizza or something of the like when he got there.  She couldn’t care less.  He swore he’d be home soon before ending the call, but with rush hour traffic, she figured she had a good hour before he made it to their apartment.  So she went to work.  She donned the dress again, the black one with the slit up the leg and the delicate, starry beadwork on the bodice (she should have returned that to the equipment and resources people at the Triskelion, but she hadn’t.  Whoops).  She did up her hair the way she’d had it that night.  Then she took it back down, the loose curls tumbling over her shoulders, because Steve liked her hair like that.  She also went easy on her make-up because, even though Steve told her all the time he thought she was always beautiful (and she knew he’d never lie or shine her on about that), she was pretty sure he preferred her in natural tones and colors.  She applied perfume but not too much because Steve smelled everything more acutely than a normal person, so strong scents tended to bother him (though he didn’t admit it).  And she went barefoot because _she_ liked him being so much taller than her.  And bigger.  She liked that far too much.

Checking herself in their bathroom mirror, she grinned, pleased with herself and what she’d done.  After, she’d moved around their apartment on light feet, an elegant shadow in the darkening evening, and turned off all the lights.  She unlocked the door.  Then she went to their bedroom to wait.

Waiting was still apparently godawful but for entirely different reasons this time.  She tried not to think, tried not to imagine or dream.  She was Black Widow, and she was better than fantasies.  But they were coming at her, fast and furious.  His hands.  His eyes.  His lips and tongue.  His body, that she’d explored and mapped and conquered (if she could be permitted such a metaphor).  This sort of thing didn’t happen to her, but she couldn’t stop it.  Frankly, she didn’t much feel like trying.  It all went straight to her core like liquid fire, and suddenly sitting still was impossible.  Everything felt alive, tingling with promised pleasure, and she couldn’t stand it.  She stood from their bed.  Impatiently paced the room.  A spider waiting for her prey.  She smiled at the thought.  _No._ Waiting for her mate.

Into her web her mate came.

The door creaked open.  Despite her every sense being attuned to that sound for what felt like forever, her heart still jumped.  “Nat?” came his call down the hall.  She heard his motorcycle keys hit the little ceramic bowl on the entryway table.  He didn’t turn the lights on.  There was rustling, his jacket landing on the back of the couch in all likelihood (because heaven forbid he ever hang it up).  His sneakers quietly thudded on the hardwoods as he ventured deeper.  “Nat, are you here?”  She knew what she was doing, the merits of waiting for the opportune moment.  He briefly went into the spare bedroom that they’d turned into an office, probably looking for her.  She hung back in the shadows.  “Natasha?”

Finally he wandered into her lair.  Not much could escape the attention of Captain America, but she’d done it.  He was turned away from her, looking at their immaculately dressed bed with confusion all over his still unshaven face.  She stood with her hip against the doorway to the bathroom, watching him with an unabashed predatory gleam in her eyes.  “Hey there, soldier.”

He whirled, not alarmed (of course), but when his eyes took her in, they went wide.  He licked his lips.  “All dolled up again?”

“Yes.”

“Was…  Was I supposed to remember something about tonight?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Then…”

“Shhh.”  She emerged from the shadows slowly, her dress sparkling as the last gray light of day caught the beads.  Swaying her hips as she walked, she slinked toward him, nothing less than a provocateur.  The corner of her mouth lifted in a smug grin as she watched him watch her _every_ movement.  “I thought a little lesson was in order.”

He seemed to be having trouble speaking.  Or thinking.  Or both.  “Lesson?”

“Yes.  On seduction.”

“We’re not exactly on the job right now.”

She cocked an eyebrow.  She never got tired of this, flirting with him, watching him get over that adorable initial burst of nervousness before playing right along.  “Doesn’t matter.  This is a little… _hands-on_ training.  A demonstration.” 

She dragged a fingertip up from his stomach, catching on his heather gray t-shirt and pulling it.  He took in her gown and arched his eyebrows.  “I also think I’m underdressed.”

“Overdressed, actually.”  Her dress swished against the floor, hemmed too long without shoes, as she stepped closer into his personal space.  She was tantalizingly near but not near enough to touch.  “But we’ll get to that.  First, the groundwork of every good seduction is control.  Control over yourself, your body and your emotions.  Control over your target.  You need to establish an air of dominance.”

He huffed a chuckle.  “Do you now?”

“You need to have the situation in hand, no matter how much your mark thinks he–”

“Or she.”

“–might.”  She quirked another smile.  He was practically twitching with the need to touch her.  “You decide what they get to think.  The illusion of dominance is very powerful.  They might believe they have the power, but it’s all a lie.  You need to be a _very_ good liar to do this.”

“’m a terrible liar,” he reminded in a throaty murmur.  His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide by mounting desire, and he stared at her, devoured her with his gaze.  “It’s not me.  Remember?”

She stood on her toes a little, trying to bring them to the same level.  Still she didn’t touch, even as she leaned closer to ghost her lips over his.  “Practice.  Tell me you don’t want me.”

“I don’t want you,” he obediently said in the huskiest, most desperate voice imaginable.

She looked down at his crotch and then tsked, shaking her head.  “Not very convincing.  You need to do better.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and cleared his throat.  “I don’t want you.”

“Really bad.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Irresistible is the word you want.”  She smiled sweetly, trying not to think about how good it would feel to scrape her teeth lightly over all those tendons in his neck and suck marks there into his skin that wouldn’t last.  “But I digress.  No matter what, you need to be firmly in command of the moment.  Under no circumstances can you let your own arousal get the better of you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So that’s first.  Second, seduction is all about teasing.”  To accentuate her point, she ran her hand right over the front of his jeans.  He groaned, rolling his eyes up the ceiling and his hips right into her touch.  “You show up, dressed like a dream, like _whatever_ your mark wants, and then you play to their weaknesses.  You dangle what they want _right in front of them_ until they’re sick with it, wanting it so bad that they’ll do _anything_ to get it.  To get you.”  She leaned closer, cupping him right through his pants, squeezing enough that he was nearly panting.  “And then when you have them right where you want them, you back off.”

She did.  His eyes snapped open when she let him go and leaned away.  “Holy hell, Nat!”

“Teasing, Captain Rogers.  The more you tease them, the less they can think about anything else until they’re ready to spill their secrets, do anything just to get a taste of you.  Eating out of the palm of your hand.”  She grinned lasciviously, holding her hand up to him.  “Eating right out of here.  Twisted all around my fingers.”  She made a “come hither” gesture with her forefinger, playful and coy, and took another few steps back to lure him.  To trap him.

Maybe that was the other way around.  He twisted something around her fingers, alright.  Before she’d even realized it, he had her hand about the wrist, tugging her closer to him, lifting it to kiss her palm.  His lips were insistent, wet, as he trailed them to her thumb, sucking it into his mouth.  She went weak in the knees, and she couldn’t hide it.

He grinned.  “Like this?” he murmured around her index finger as he gave it the same treatment.

“Like that,” she agreed, but it was more a breathy plea.  She tried to pull away, but he was too strong and didn’t let her.  “So you need to keep…”  He was kissing up her arm now, pressing his lips to the soft flesh of her wrist, smoothing the place where he held her.  “You need to keep working them.  And when you’ve gotten what you want, not that they…”  His other hand went to her waist, scrunching the silk of her dress as he pulled her closer.  He was kissing her shoulder now, worshipping the skin there, before going to the nape of her neck.  “…not what they want, right.  What you want.  When you have that, you – you drop them like a…”

His mouth was hot, his tongue dipping along her collarbone as he worked the strap of her gown down her arm.  “Drop ’em like what?” he whispered.

“Bad habit,” she whispered.

“You do realize bad habits are hard to drop,” he whispered, brushing her hair aside to get better access.  “That’s what makes them bad habits.”  She closed her eyes when the flats of his palms passed over her breasts.  She hadn’t bothered with a bra, so her nipples were pointed and sensitive.  “Good lesson, though.”  He squeezed lightly, his thumbs finding them through the beadwork and the fabric.

“Yeah…” she whispered.  “Yeah.”

“But I think I need practice.  What do you think?”  How the hell had the tables been turned so quickly?  She didn’t know.  Didn’t care.  Whimpered as he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, the fabric as rough and electrifying as his touch.  “Huh, Nat?”  His mouth latched onto a soft spot just below her ear, and he sucked lightly.  “Tell me you don’t want me.”  _Damn you, Rogers._   She hated it when he got the best of her.  Hated it in a _really_ good way.  “Come on.  Tell me.”

“I…”

He pushed his leg between hers, firm and powerful.  “ _Tell me._ ”

“I want you!”

All of the sudden he was driving her right back into the doorframe.  She hit hard enough to jolt but not hurt.  His lips were lower now, kissing hotly down her neck and chest, and his hands were fumbling at her back to find the zipper of the dress.  It was small and difficult to grasp, and she thought she heard something rip as he tried to get it and mostly failed.  It was enough to pull the front of the gown down below her breasts, though, and she gasped in pleasure, arching her back and pushing her chest into him as he sweetly teased and tormented.  His mouth closed around a nipple, sucking hard enough that she saw stars.  He hooked an arm around her back for support as she squirmed helplessly.  His thick fingers plucked at the other side, pinching just shy of pain.  Her hands went tight into his hair, fisting the silky blond locks, holding his face to her.  “Steve,” she gasped.  “This was sposed to be… my…”

“Your what?” he rumbled, blowing cool air over her breasts just to see the smooth flesh pucker with goose pimples.

“My seduction!”

“You said I was terrible at it,” he said with a pout.  The arm around her rear pulled her hips to his, probably just so she could feel how hard he was (not that she could have forgotten).  “And I probably am.  But I’m…”  He settled his attention on the other breast.  Natasha tried to swallow her moan and failed rather spectacularly.  She could feel his mouth pull into a smile.  “…really good…”  His hips thrust forward again.  Another desperate whimper punched through Natasha’s lips.  “…at seducing one woman...”  Another roll of his hips.  Another keening whine.  “…in particular.”

His fingers danced their way up her chest, across the soft flesh of her throat, to slip through her hair.  He pulled her face to his, kissing hard, tongue driving inside the warm cavern of her mouth to tangle with hers.  She wasn’t going to let him get away with this.  She kissed back just as hard, wet and deep and filthy, and he was the one who groaned.  Just for a moment, though.  “Nuh-uh,” he reprimanded, pulling away.  “You’re _mine._ ”

The shock of him whispering that with so much possessive _lust_ in his voice left her reeling.  They’d made love so many times ( _so many times_ ), but he’d never quite said anything like that.  And the fact that it echoed everything she’d thought after the Paris op…  Well.  She was still stumbling over that, over being owned by him physically and emotionally and in every way she could ever want to be owned by anyone, that she didn’t hardly notice him dropping down to his knees in front of her.  One second the warm heat of his tongue had been laving over the pulse point in her neck and his weight had been pinning her to the wall.  The next…

_Oh, God._

He pushed the skirt of her gown up and out of the way.  His fingers lightly caressed her calves, almost reverent in their touch.  His lips followed, suckling, tracing the contour of her knee and thigh on one side as she draped the other leg on his shoulder.  Her heart was absolutely _pounding_ now, her body shaking and shivering in anticipation.  She bit her lower lip hard to keep herself quiet.  Damn him, he was taking his sweet time.  _Teasing._   _Torturing._   She should have known better than to taunt him.  It lasted forever, a deliciously miserable eternity, before he grabbed her hip under her dress with one hand.  She hadn’t bothered with panties either, and his fingers went right where she needed them.

Talk about seeing stars.

“St-Steve…” she whispered, spreading her legs wider.  Her eyes rolled back, which was fine because her vision was fairly well failing her.  His mouth followed her hand, delving, probing, touching her in all the places she’d taught him.  The places that drove her wild.  Sweat broke out over her in a sheen, and her chest was heaving as he drove his fingers deeper and suckled right where she could hardly stand it.  Pleasure like lightning coursed over her, shooting from between her legs to every nerve in her body, and she gasped and groaned and panted and whimpered.  “Steve!”

He didn’t answer, didn’t stop.  Her fingers tightened more and more in his hair until she was sure she was hurting him, but that didn’t dissuade him for even a second.  The pressure was agonizing, like a knot tightening and tightening inside her.  She couldn’t remember ever feeling this good, even though she knew she had.  It was always new, always amazing.  Always perfect.  _Every time._ And she couldn’t stop herself from rising quickly to the crest.  Her muscles tightened.  She couldn’t catch her breath.  “Steve…  I…”

He pressed _hard_ with those long, artist’s fingers deep inside her, and that was all it took.  Somehow her climax still took her by surprise, powerfully washing over her.  She thought she heard herself scream.  Maybe.  Her senses sort of quit on her as she rode the waves of ecstasy.  The world blurred with pleasure and heat, and breathing seemed to be all she could do.

She came down slowly.  He gave her a final, careful kiss to her core, oversensitive nerves shuddering with even the slightest touch.  Then he looked up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and smirked at her from beneath the bunched up fabric of her dress.

That was it.  She rapidly and roughly untangled herself from him and pulled him up to his feet.  _“Mine,”_ she snarled, yanking his shirt right over his head.  She attacked his mouth ferociously, the kiss teeth and battling tongues, as her fingers worked frantically at his belt.  She got it open and pulled it away.  Then she undid the button and fly of his jeans.  She pushed them down.  “Mine,” she breathed again, nipping at his earlobe as he crouched and fumbled to kick loose his shoes and get his pants off.  Naked, he stood before her.  She’d seen him before so many times, but it never failed to amaze her how _perfect_ he was.  Miles of muscles.  The swell of his pecs, the hills of his abs, the broadness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips.  So much power.  He was flushed with desire, eyes swimming in arousal, lips kiss-swollen and slick.  She smiled.  “I need you.”

“Now?” he whispered.

 _“Right now.”_   He didn’t wait for further direction, pushing the fabric of her dress aside again.  He grabbed her hips and lifted her like she weighed nothing, his forearm beneath her bottom as he pushed into her in one long, perfect slide.  He groaned.  She whimpered.  Their mouths met, hungry and fighting for dominance once more, as he pushed her into the wall and started to move.  She wrapped her legs around him, heels pressing deeply into the muscles at the backs of his thighs, arms linked around his neck.  He did all the work, supporting her weight, thrusting hard and fast.  It was so tight, so hot.  She could feel him deep inside, thick and hard and right.  It was _right_.  The way he fit inside her.  The way he _completed_ her.  The way she wanted it.  The way he did, too.

He buried his face into the junction between her shoulder and her neck, breathing in damp, hot blasts of air.  His lips attached there occasionally, sucking or biting lightly.  She did the same to him, tasting the salt of sweat on his skin, rubbing her thumb over the flattened nub of one his nipples.  He groaned and shuddered, adjusting his grip on her to push deeper into her body.  It was too much, too fast, but not enough, too, and she had enough presence of mind to want more.  To make this last.  She raked her nails down his back in a warning when she felt him getting close.  “No.”  Now he was the one who whined.  “Bed.”

“Bed?” he gasped like he didn’t get it.

“Bed.”  He pulled her tight against him, not losing contact for a second, and devoured the short distance to their bed.  He set her down and immediately pushed her into the mattress, seeking to reestablish his rhythm.  “No,” she ordered again.  She pushed herself up, shoving him away lightly.  He was flushed, eyes feverish, glazed, and rather confused.  All his strength was soft and pliant under her fingers, hers to control, and she directed him back into the pillows.  He lay there, looking dazedly up at her while she straddled him and sank down onto him anew, filling the aching space inside.  God, that felt good.  She closed her eyes and licked her lips, holding completely still, making him wait.  That seemed to be too tall an order, because he groaned hoarsely and bucked up into her.  She squeezed his hips with her thighs, again in warning, and grabbed his hands.  “Keep those there,” she ordered huskily after pushing them up by his heard.  “No touching.  No moving.”

He quirked a sloppy smile.  “Yes, ma’am.”

She curled her nails into his chest and rolled her hips, slowly at first but then faster and faster.  He was at her mercy.  Willingly and completely.  Sweat bathed his skin, which was amazing considering he could run for miles and miles and fight for hours without a drop of perspiration on his face.  Shivers worked their way down his body, and he breathed in pants through them, moaning low and quietly.  Still, never once did he close his eyes.  He was watching her, mouth open, lips dried from fast breaths through them.  Watching intently, like he couldn’t stand to miss even a second of what she looked like.  Of what this was.  She smiled at that, at the look on his face, the wonder and amazement and adoration.  All for her.  _Only_ for her.  She’d never get tired of seeing it.  Never get tired of all this power, all his strength beneath her, against her, inside her.  Never for a moment stop loving him with everything she had.

_Never._

It didn’t take long at all for her to feel that familiar heat building again, that heady tingle pulling from inside her.  Faster and faster it grew, and faster and faster she moved, chasing it with wanton abandon.  “Nat,” he moaned.  She could see from the way he was now mauling his lower lip with his teeth that he was trying to hang on for her, his fingers scrabbling in the pillows for something to hold, the big muscles of his thighs clenching with the effort of staving off his release.  He shuddered.  “Nat…”

The sight of that, of him denying himself _for her_ , was too much.  “Baby…” she whispered.  “Steve, oh, God…”

That seemed to be enough to push him to the edge, but not before he broke her rules.  With one large hand he reached up to grasp the back of her head, pulling her into a searing kiss, and the other he snaked between their bodies, going right under the dress to touch between her thighs above where they were joined.  He pressed his thumb right there, just heavy, steady _pressure_ , and she lost herself again.  That twisting and turning ball of pleasure exploded in a hot blast inside her, and she cried out helplessly into his mouth.  He thrust up into her once, holding her tight against him before shuddering wildly.  He pulled back to open his mouth in a soundless cry.  For a minute, it seemed too intense for him, like it was pleasure beyond what he knew how to handle.  But he made it through a breath.  And another.  And he sank down onto the bed, limp and loose.

Natasha came back to herself much more slowly this time.  She was heavy with a warm haze of fading pleasure and exhaustion.  He was, too.  He didn’t let her go, even as he trembled through the aftershocks of it all.  She leaned up a little just to look down on him.  This she’d never tire of, either.  His face, slackened with pleasure.  His lips, curling into the beginnings of a smile.  His eyes, deep with love and reverence.  She was the only one who saw this.  The only one with whom he shared it.  The only one with whom he would _ever_ share it.  It was hers forever.  _Mine…_

She kissed him tenderly, settling herself beside him to hold him as he slipped further down from the blissful high.  “Oh, Nat,” he whispered.  “Nat, Nat, Nat…”  She laughed quietly, draping her arm across his belly, and he curled his around her bare back.  It was silent for a while, breaths and hearts slowing, bodies sinking into contented lethargy.  He rubbed his palm up and down her arm.  Then he kissed her hair.  “I think we ruined your dress.”

“You never even got me out of it,” she joked.

He grunted like that was a challenge, and with surprising energy he reached down and took the dress where it was bunched around her waist.  He pulled it up over her head, probably ripping it more (not that it mattered), and tossed it across their bedroom.  “There.  Done.  Consider yourself seduced and debauched.”

She leaned up again, despite the fact that she was so tired (and a little sore but in a _very_ good way).  “You seduced me?  Other way around, Rogers.  I put the dress on.  I planned this whole thing out.  _I_ was the one teaching _you_.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You can admit it, you know.  I’m good at seduction.  Aces, darling.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “Want me to show you more?  Another hands-on demonstration?”

“I think more would probably kill me right now.”  He smiled, looking ridiculously proud of himself.  She smiled, too, and kissed his lips lazily.  “But later, yes.  Besides, that was your reward.”

“My reward?”

“Yep.”  She kissed his nose.  _For being you.  For staying true to yourself._   _For loving me.  For everything._   “For a job well done.” 

**THE END**


End file.
